


A Demon's Requiem

by ab2fsycho (orphan_account)



Category: Gravity Falls, Labyrinth (1986), Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Demon AU, I'll probably add characters and fandoms as i go, Multi, but then no, for now the demons are just parenting, here goes guys, i give myself very good advice but very seldom follow it, i said i wouldn't do this until I finished something, kind of, they all suck at their jobs really, will most likely have explicits and blood later in the stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three demons have claimed the lives and souls of four children for differing reasons. Bill wishes to take on two new prodigies, Pitch must protect the sibling of the child he failed to save, and Descole owes the king souls for his transgressions. None of them anticipated developing the bonds that they do with their charges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Manipulated Living

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: I'm orphaning this, not because I don't love the story, but because the universe got big enough I want to make it an original work.

“I can save him.”

Clark Triton turned toward the voice, the sound of feathers having preceded the words. He'd been standing for hours, hovering over the hospital bed. It was less than a bed, truthfully. It was a crib on wheels, with a cover that prevented anything from reaching the infant inside. An infant with tubes sticking out of him. Clark's heart had broken so much in the last twenty-four hours, watching his newborn son struggling to live. While the cover prevented any harm from coming to the child, it also prevented him or Brenda from holding the boy, comforting him, loving him the way they'd wanted to since discovering he'd been conceived. All they could do was speak to him, but even that felt restricted by the barrier.

The man was at his wit's end when he'd heard the voice. Confronting its source, his eyes narrowed on the oddly dressed individual. Very oddly dressed. He wore a mask, boa, cape, and a hat he didn't quite know how to identify. He hadn't heard the door open, nor had he ever seen this man before. The words caught his attention, though. “What did you say?”

The man stepped forward, hands hidden beneath the cape and features disguised by the mask. “I can save him,” he repeated.

Since the birth of Luke Triton, Clark had heard many things. He'd heard 'we can try to treat him,' 'it's unlikely he'll make it,' 'he's just far too weak,' but not once had he heard the words 'I can save him.' So this stranger had his complete attention along with a healthy amount of his suspicion. “How?”

The individual said nothing at first, circling around Clark to come stare down at the infant. Clark didn't know what it was or why he suddenly felt the urge, but as the stranger's gaze fell on Luke he wanted to cover the infant and hide him. He didn't, though. He just watched the man warily as the stranger stepped around the chair where Brenda was sleeping to get a full view of the child. Clark followed the man's gaze and all of a sudden he was stuck looking down at Luke. For so long he and Brenda had wanted a child. Now they had him, and they were on the cusp of losing him.

“Such potential,” he vaguely heard the man whisper. For the first time, he saw one of the stranger's hands emerge from the cloak. Whether it was a trick of the light or sleep deprivation that distorted Clark's vision he didn't know. All he knew was that the stranger appeared to have talons. Black, bird-like talons reaching towards his son.

Clark stepped closer, this time actually covering his son with his arms. “How?” he reiterated with more force.

He knew no amount of sleep deprivation or lighting issues could have affected his imagination so thoroughly as he watched the man's eyes flash red behind the mask. “With a deal,” the stranger replied.

Everything inside Clark clenched. Was this . . . was the stranger a demon? He had no other explanation. He had no other logic to go on at the moment. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Either way the stranger enclosed on Luke and Clark came around to bodily shield his son from the stranger. “I don't know who you think you are, or what game you're playing at—”

“I'm not in a gaming mood, Mr. Triton. Mayhap I shall seek out a game or two later on, but at the moment I am dead serious.” The stranger stepped closer to Clark, standing toe to toe with the man. Clark's skin started to crawl as the . . . creature said, “I am offering your son a chance at a full life. I only ask you one thing in return.”

Clark had a feeling he knew what it was, but he asked anyway. “What is it?” He had to be sure.

Sure enough, the stranger replied, “His soul.”

Clark's insides twisted further as he turned away from the demon to stare back down at Luke. “No,” he muttered, watching his son fighting just to breathe. “I can't . . .,” he couldn't even finish. He was so tired, so wounded by the pitfall life had created for him, but he couldn't agree to this. He simply could not.

The fact that he was even standing here listening to a stranger claiming to be able to save his son spoke volumes on how desperate he was, though. On some level, the demon must have known that.

The stranger stepped back around the opposite side of the infant again, and Clark could feel the being's gaze upon him. “Unless you accept my deal, you will not have a son at all.” Clark's heart kicked in his chest. “I will not take his soul until he has lived the life he was meant to. Is that such a heavy price?” Clark looked up at the stranger, tears forming in his bloodshot eyes. “Would you really lose your son over a soul he will not even be able to use? To enjoy?”

The clenching and twisting of his guts came to a head as he knew his answer. Shaking his head, he hated himself for entertaining such a foolish idea. But if this was a dream, if this wasn't really happening, then there was nothing to lose. If this really was a demon before him, offering his son a chance to live . . . he would be a fool to say no.

He would do anything for his family. He would always do anything for his family.

“I'll take the deal,” he murmured.

Looking back up, the demon held up a hand that was on fire. Clark jumped at the sight, panic setting in as he stared at the red flames reaching for him as much as the palm. He hesitated, but then took the demon's hand. When the flames didn't hurt, he shook the palm willingly. “I will ensure his continued safety. He will have the life you longed for him to have.” The demon let go of his hand, then touched his fingers to Clark's forehead. Before Clark blacked out, he heard the stranger utter, “And for your sake, you shan't remember this moment.”

Meanwhile, Jean Descole watched as the human collapsed on the ground. Staring down at the infant, he started his enchanting. He whispered to young Luke that when the nurses returned, they would find him in a much more stable condition than when they'd left him. He would grow stronger as days progressed. Before long, he would be just another average, healthy infant. He gave a fanged smirk as the babe's hand twitched, as though acknowledging and accepting his voice. Descole's voice would be a constant in the life of Luke Triton. 

* * *

 

Three months later . . . .

“What are you doing here, you bastard?!”

“Shh,” the demon crooned, pointing his cane at Stanford Pines to stop the man in his tracks. He cradled one of the babies in the crook of his arm, staring intently down at the female twin as she looked up at him. “I think she likes me.”

Stan spoke quieter, but his tone hadn't lost its intensity, “You get your hands off my niece, and don't even think about—”

“Stanford,” Bill looked back at Stan with a chastising look, “you'll upset our little Pine Trees. They can sense danger, you know.” He lowered his cane, looking back down at Mabel Pines. “I think I'll call this one Shooting Star, actually. She just gives that vibe.” He gave her what almost looked like a soft expression, cooing to her. “I haven't had an infant look at me like this in such a long time. It's almost like she knows me—”

“I don't know what you want,” Stan interrupted him, “and frankly I don't give a damn—”

The demon exaggerated a gasp. “In front of the children! Stan, really?”

“—but if you don't stay away from my niece and nephew, I will—”

“Nephew,” Bill muttered with interest, moving back to the cradle and setting Mabel down gently. Stan started to advance again until Bill picked up the boy. “Much more squirmy than his sister, I'll give him that.” Nestling the boy much the same way as he'd done his twin, Stan felt his blood begin to boil as the demon continued talking to his niece and nephew. He made little noises at the boy they'd started to call Dipper before leaning back and making a noise of surprise. “I think this one inherited your right hook, Stan!” He gasped again, the sound more genuine. “Is that a constellation I see on your forehead, Pine Tree—?”

“What do you want, Bill?”

The demon finally looked at him, but Stan was not prepared for the answer he received. “What's due.” Stan's eyes narrowed as the demon's gaze turned serious. “You foiled me one too many times, backed out on too many deals.” Bill's trademark evil smirk appeared. “Now it's time for a little payback.”

Stan felt his resolve beginning to crumble as he held his hands up. “Please,” he got ready to beg, “take anything from me. Just please don't—”

“Oh, I will,” Bill declared as he stared meaningfully down at the twins. “I know just what I'll take.”

“Leave them be. They're innocent of any of what I've done. Please—”

“Save it, Stan. You haven't even heard my terms.” His voice was cool, like his golden gaze that was slowly turning electric blue. “Here's the deal, Stanford,” he stepped towards the man, still cradling Dipper in his arms as the boy stared up at the demon. “I'll forget all that you owe me. I'll forget you even exist to an extent. In exchange, these adorable little meat sacks,” he bounced the infant in his arms gently, “will be mine.” Stan started to protest, started to plea, but was cut off when Bill pointed at him with his cane again and declared, “No buts. As long as they live, I will be watching them. I will be taking care of them. And when their wretched little lives as humans come to an end,” his smile grew more twisted, “so begins their lives as my apprentices.”

Stan shook his head as Bill turned away to place Dipper back in his spot. “You can't,” he started, fumbling for words. He was on the verge of screaming, instead growling through gritted teeth, “I won't let you!”

“Oh don't act like that, Stanford. It's not like I'm gonna kill them.” The demon turned back toward him, gaze golden again. “The thought crossed my mind, though—”

“You can't have them!” Stan cried, readying a fist to swing at the demon.

As he thrust forward, Bill used his cane to knock the fist off course and sending the man stumbling. One of the babes, Dipper most likely, let out a whimper. Bill's hand automatically flung out to start rocking the cradle gently, effectively silencing the twins. Stan stared back at the demon, horrified. “This is only just, my old friend. You messed up. I'm here to collect.” Bill stepped away from the cradle at last, measuring out his paces towards Stan carefully. “And now that I've laid my claim, I'll tell you what I could do. I could hand them over to the demon who calls himself king in this part of the world. He's rather fond of children, likes to keep them as pets and subjects. He's a lot less caring of a guardian than I would be, and he wouldn't even entertain the idea of letting them stay here when he could have them now. If you don't want me to simply hand little Pine Tree and Shooting Star over to him,” Bill stopped moving, “you'll just accept my deal.” Stan looked down, chest heaving as his thoughts ran rampant. The demon chuckled then. “I'll let them live long lives. In fact, I'll make sure they do. Long, normal lives. Well,” he snorted, “as normal as they can get with you as a relative.”

“Please,” Stan uttered, allowing himself one last bid for mercy. “Don't . . . don't do this to them.”

“I'm surprised at your reluctance, Stan. Truly I am. After all, I am offering them an eternity.”

“An eternity with you,” Stan growled, glaring up at Bill.

The demon gave a mock shudder. “Oh, I do hope one of them inherits that glare of yours. So contempt, very challenge!” He returned to being serious. “They're mine, Stanford. They're mine, and they'll always be mine.” The demon's figure began to fade as he slowly returned to his realm. “And don't you worry your pretty head over them. I can assure you,” he disappeared completely, voice echoing, “they're in good hands.”

Despair didn't seep into him fully until Bill was entirely gone and he was alone with his niece and nephew again. Staggering over to the now sleeping infants, he dropped to his knees. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I never wished this for you.” And he fully intended to fix it, if he could. Could he?

Judging by the certainty of Bill Cipher's success (he hadn't even offered a handshake), Stan somehow knew the odds of breaking such a manifesto were slim to none. 

* * *

 

Ten years later . . . .

“It seems you've failed to do your duty,” the king's voice rang in Pitch's mind.

Pitch hovered outside the cemetery, watching the procession towards an empty grave. Soon the grave would be occupied, and he would never look upon the face of the girl he'd been charged to protect again. Her parents had made a deal with him as they were perishing in a car accident, begging him to watch over her throughout her days. He'd accepted, nearly forgetting to ask for anything in return. Call him soft. Call him sentimental. He'd taken one long look at the dark haired child who should have died in the crash with her parents and seen another face from another era.

Neither face would ever present themselves to him. No, not ever again. Closing his eyes, he staved off the beginnings of the horrible memories to answer the king's voice in the back of his mind with, “What would you have me do?” He owed the king a soul. He had not made good on his promise, so the girl's soul was not up for collection.

The funeral procession continued, and Pitch's gaze fell on the girl's only surviving direct relative. His eyes narrowed on the boy, the boy who should have died in her place. But he hadn't.

He was not wholly aware that he was grinding his teeth until, as if on cue, the king responded, “The brother. His soul. I want it.” Pitch sighed, glare intensifying on the twelve-year-old staring blankly at his sister's coffin. Did he even understand what was going on? Did he even know he was the one who should be in that coffin? “Jack, I believe. That's his name.”

“This was his fault,” he snarled. He had not protected her well enough. She fell through the ice while he was frolicking about through the woods. “He should be—”

“A life for a life, dear friend.” The king's declaration of friendship came at a heavy price. Pitch had given him many souls in exchange for such trust. In fact, were he any other demon, the king would not be treating him so favorably. “Guard him. Ensure he lives as long as she should have. I believe she was to see the age of eighteen. Then you can do what you will with his body as long as his soul comes to me.” Pitch's head tilted. The idea of getting some retribution on the boy who'd carelessly left his sibling unattended did appeal to him. He was angry with the child, but not unreasonable. “Does that sound fair enough, Pitch?”

Pitch watched the boy, wanting something, anything to show on his face. He wanted at least one sign that this Jack felt at least a little bit of remorse before giving his answer. He got it as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the ground. There, glittering in the boy's bright blue eyes, were the tears Pitch had been waiting to see. Good. He knew. He knew that this was his doing. “I'll do it.”

“Very well.” The king let him be then.

Pitch Black knew in the back of his mind it was unreasonable for him to blame a boy for the loss of his sibling. As with the girl, he saw another face when he looked at Jack's. This time, the face was his. He resolved to make sure that little Jackson Overland Frost suffered as many nightmares as Pitch in that stage of his life, before he was a demon doing the king's work.

It was only right.


	2. Kids

“Well if isn't the king's horseman.”

 

Pitch didn't even blink at the nickname the other demon had given him. “Haven't lost another soul to a bleeding heart, have you?”

 

If he was offended, Descole didn't let on. He came to sit beside his sire, who stared intently into his personal crystal as he kept an eye on his charge of two years now. They sat on a precipice overlooking the place Pitch called home. Every demon had a space of their own on the plane, and Pitch's looked like a dark, sinister, damp re-imagination of Venetian canals within a cavern. It was Escher-like in appearance, which actually had not been his doing. No, that was the king's idea. Pitch had simply agreed to it because he didn't particularly care.

 

Only a select few demons were allowed in Pitch's realm on the demonic plane. Descole was one of those few. He answered Pitch's half hearted question with, “I have actually gained a few souls because of a bleeding heart, thank you.”

 

“That's a first.” Descole was forever freeing people of their bargains provided they find another way to pay him for what he'd done.

 

Descole scoffed. “It's not like I can afford to lose another.”

 

“Yes. The king will kill you,” Pitch remarked. He watched as Descole reached into his jacket to pull his own crystal out. Peering over the demon's shoulder and neglecting to watch his own crystal for a moment, Pitch caught a glimpse of a small boy in a blue hat. Smirking, he asked, “How long before you take pity on this one?”

 

“I shan't.” The words came out bitterly, but there was something in the way Descole spoke that denoted a sort of fondness. That was the demon's downfall: he grew fond of his charges. “I rather like this one. He's a puzzle solver. I can appreciate that.”

 

Pitch turned back to his crystal, watching Jack lie still and unblinking in his bed. “Just don't offer him a way out of your deal. Whatever it was.”

 

“He was dying. I gave him a new life.”

 

There was a pause before Pitch asked softly, “His parents were weeping, weren't they?”

 

Descole said nothing at first. Then he responded, “The father.”

 

Pitch shook his head. “You can't take pity on every father who cries for his child, despite how much of a weakness you have for such situations.”

 

“Says the demon who continues to mourn the daughter he saw in his former charge.”

 

So ended that conversation. Pitch was not a hypocrite, and Descole was not one to let him forget his life as a human no matter how long ago it had been. That was what had forged a friendship between the two in the first place. It was why Pitch had chosen to make Descole his protege a few centuries before. They were members of a small portion of demons who could remember their time as humans. Whether that was because their sires had allowed them that luxury (or misfortune), they did not know. It tended to happen sporadically, and when it did the memories tended to be painful. Pitch had long tried to numb himself, but Descole simply wouldn't let him. Just as he would do his best not to let Descole show mercy to too many of his charges from whom he was to collect souls. They had duties to fulfill, and the load didn't feel quite as heavy when one knew there was another who had suffered just as much alongside them.

 

Watching their charges in their crystals, they began their usual, less riveting discussion. “How much of a death wish does your current project have?” Pitch asked.

 

Descole let out a long sigh. “He is the worst one I have had so far. Only a little while ago he almost got run over by a car.”

 

“What was he doing?”

 

“Chasing a cat.”

 

Pitch couldn't help but chuckle. “How old is he?”

 

“Twelve.”

 

Pitch nodded. “Must be this generation.”

 

“Yours is twelve too?”

 

“Yes he is. His self-destruction is more internalized, though. I was afraid he wouldn't have any feeling whatsoever.”

 

“You want him to have a death wish?” Pitch pinned Descole with a gimlet stare. “Don't look at me like that. At least you still have a soul to collect.”

 

Pitch sighed. “It wasn't his soul I wanted.”

 

Descole shook his head. “Most of us don't have the luxury of picking and choosing. At least you're the king's favorite.”

 

“Otherwise he would have dealt me a punishment much like the ones you receive regularly.”

 

“ _Semi_ -regularly,” Descole corrected.

 

“Forgive me. I was not aware once a month constituted as semi-regularly. I was thinking more once a year.”

 

“Have you never been reprimanded for that mouth of yours?”

 

A loud crack and what sounded like a large disturbance in the sound barrier across the realm caught their attention, the sometimes deafening noise quickly followed by the curse, “Son of a bitch whore's son!”

 

Pitch's brow furrowed. “Again?” he muttered. “That's the third time in a week.”

 

Before long, a tall blonde dressed in a tuxedo complimented by a top hat strode into view from across the way. His feet left the ground as he started floating towards the other two demons, waving his cane angrily. “Let me tell you what Pine Tree did!”

 

“Quite frankly, I don't want to know what your child did this time,” Pitch responded flatly. Ever since Bill had taken on these twins, he had been finding some excuse to come complain to him about it. When he wasn't complaining to Pitch, he was complaining to the king. Very rarely did he ever complain to Descole, as the two rarely saw eye to eye. He had been shouting about these children for however many years now, especially now more often than ever as they were staying with their great uncle (with whom Bill had had decades of quarrels) for an extended period of time. Their great uncle's home sat in the middle of the woods surrounded by all manner of creatures that obeyed the floating demon's whims when he wanted them to, and the twins had taken to stirring up trouble in that region.

 

“I'm curious,” Descole uttered. Pitch rolled his eyes. He was about to discover that showing any interest in Bill Cipher's rantings was a huge mistake. Bill had only ever mentioned the twins to Descole when he had a question pertaining to the human condition. Descole, being the youngest of the three, still recalled vividly how to take care of a human body.

 

Bill's eye glowed black as he hovered before them and started gesticulating as he shouted, “This kid is the stupidest meat sack I have ever laid eyes on! Not only does he go running after zombies, gnomes, and the like rather than running away like a  _normal_ kid, he decides to pick a fight with the goddamn multi-bear!”

 

Pitch shook his head, unsure whether he was tired of hearing Bill's voice already or if he actually was concerned for Bill's future prodigies. He groaned when Descole commented, “Well, the important question is did he win?”

 

Bill roared, hands shaking as if that were the dumbest question he'd heard all day. “Of course he won! He's mine!”

 

“Alright then,” Descole replied smoothly.

 

“But instead of striking the finishing blow, he proceeds to bond with the thing over _pop music_!”

 

There was a long pause, and Pitch knew intrinsically that Descole was holding back what would have been a loud snort. “That's . . . that's rough.” The mirth in his voice was as plain as day, but at least he made the effort to withhold the laugh he wanted to over the older demon's dilemma.

 

“I don't know what's worse!” Bill declared as he got ready to rip his hair out. “The fact that these kids enjoy that shitty noise they call music or that they act like they _want to die_ ,” Bill snarled, balling his fists as he started radiating red. Hands now aflame, he bellowed, “I'm not ready to raise a pair of demon spawn!”

 

“Weren't you the one who chose them? No deal necessary really?” Pitch really wished Descole hadn't asked that. Soon Descole would wish that as well.

 

Bill screamed, throwing a ball of flame across the realm in his fit of rage. Pitch growled, “If you're going to attempt to damage my personal space, you could at least ask where you are allowed to aim first.”

 

Bill ignored him completely, instead addressing Descole's questions with, “I should have just killed Stan and taken  _his_ soul, but  _no_ ,” he drawled out the word, “I decided to get  _creative_ instead!”

 

“Speaking of getting creative,” Descole proceeded to change the subject as he turned to Pitch, “have you heard from that group of demons lately?”

 

Pitch shook his head, admiring and silently admonishing the younger demon's ability to ignore the firestorm right in front of him. “Last I checked they were torturing someone over the power of love.”

 

“ _Pay attention to me_!” Bill's voice dropped several octaves and reverberated through the space. Pitch and Descole stared blankly at him, both unimpressed at varying degrees. “I'm trying to bitch here!”

 

Pitch held up a finger, mouth open as he thought of something. Then he asked, “Your twins are twelve, correct?”

 

“Yeah, so?!”

 

Pitch nudged Descole. “See. I told you. It's the generation. Kids today.”

 

“What are you blabbering about?”

 

“In case you haven't noticed,” Pitch gestured his crystal towards Descole's, “we, too, are on watch.”

 

Bill's angry flares ceased and his eye faded back to a normal gold. Pitch resisted the urge to smirk at the eldest demon's nosiness as Bill floated around behind them to take a seat between the two. Staring first over Pitch's shoulder at Jack, who still stayed in his bed without moving nary a muscle, he grimaced. “He's boring.”

 

“He's depressed,” Pitch pointed out. “We've suffered a loss, in case you've been too busy to notice.”

 

“It's been what? Two years? Yeesh, it's just a lost soul, horseman!” Pitch and Descole exchanged exasperated glances as Bill turned his focus towards the other crystal. Bill was one of the many demons who remembered nothing of being human. It was entirely possible that he and the king (both being of similar age) had never been human at all. Bill's gaze narrowed on Descole's charge, who was doing something rather trivial at the moment. “Is that a puzzle?”

 

“A five thousand piece one. He's pretty good.”

 

Bill rolled his eyes and sat back on his heels, grumbling about Descole and his love of puzzles. “Better be careful. He might be able to out-puzzle you and you'll lose another one.”

 

“I'm keeping a healthy distance from him.” Then he spotted something, tilting his head curiously. Pressing the crystal to his lips, he whispered, “A piece fell on the floor.” Pulling back, they watched as the child responded to the voice, scooting his chair back to look for the fallen puzzle piece.

 

“Healthy distance, you say,” Bill grumbled, sarcasm complimented by a wry smile.

 

“Just little comments every now and again. He listens. He doesn't question,” Descole grew defensive.

 

“He just accepts your voice? Just like that?” Bill asked.

 

“Shouldn't he be concerned about a voice in his head?” Pitch inquired.

 

“Do you know what Pine Tree would do if he heard _my_ voice in his head? He'd flip! He'd turn himself inside out.”

 

“Luke is unique on that aspect. If he thinks it's something even vaguely supernatural, he simply accepts it and moves along. Unless he's afraid of it. Then he runs,” Descole explained.

 

“And he isn't afraid of you?” Bill asked.

 

“Should he be?”

 

“Yes,” both elder demons answered in unison. Descole just shook his head.

 

After a moment of quiet, Bill fumbled in his jacket for one of his crystals. Rubbing it on one of his lapels, he added, “He and Shooting Star might get along, then. She's much the same mentality.”

 

“Judging from what you've said about her in the past, this poor Luke might end up running away from her,” Pitch commented as Bill settled down with them, holding his crystal for both of them to look at.

 

As the gazed into it, he muttered, “Look as this little asshole.” Pitch didn't bother looking. He'd seen the child who called himself Dipper Pines often enough to guess what he was most likely doing. Apparently he was getting tormented by his twin, as Descole let out a hiss at something she'd done and Bill guffawed and proudly claimed, “That's my girl!”

 

“Are you sure they're cut out to be demons?” Descole asked after a long pause.

 

Pitch had asked that question a few times before, but the answer always remained the same. “Anyone can be made a demon, my boa-wearing friend. It's the other guys you have to really put an effort into impressing and joining.” Bill often said, but none of them had actually encountered said other guys. The eldest of the three always declared it was due to lack of interest in the world below, like they had more important things to worry about amongst themselves. That seemed only right, as demons had much the same mentality. It was just that their jobs involved the human realm, and therefore they had no choice but to interact.

 

Pitch stared once more at the gloomy preteen in his crystal. His sister's lifespan wasn't supposed to be long to begin with. She should have passed at the age of eighteen. It was still such a young age to perish, but not nearly as young as she'd been when she actually had left the world. He had been intending to keep her alive for as long as he could, just as Descole and Bill were doing with their charges. Descole's charge was due to die of old age at this point, whereas Bill's twins could pass at any moment since there was no deal to forfeit. Jack, however, was to take his sister's place at eighteen. So far, the boy had given him no reason to try to extend his lifespan.

 

Jack drifted into a dreamless sleep for now as his foster family continued to neglect him. They thought they were giving him space. No, they were merely opening him up to an attack by living him alone with a demon who resented him. Not that they knew there was a demon lingering, waiting for the opportune moment to send him some more nightmares. There was a reason the boy had dark circles under his eyes after all, and with the twitch of a finger Pitch was sending him another round of nightmares that would only serve to further darken those circles. Pitch watched as the sleeping child squinted and squirmed, gritting his teeth against the visions that were just painful enough to disturb him but not rouse him. He fought the urge to grin at his good work, lest Bill grow curious and demand to try a few dreams of his own on Jack.

 

Jack was Pitch's to torment. He could handle the boy all on his own.

 


	3. Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of two updates on this work today, don't skip!

Luke was a lonely child. For a good chunk of his childhood, he stayed inside. His parents claimed it was because they feared for his health, but he had always felt fine. Even now he couldn't recall ever having gotten sick. No coughing, no sneezing, nothing at all. He was never ill, yet his parents claimed he'd been born so very sick that they'd feared for his life. It was years before he was able to interact with others for long periods of time without fear of his parents worrying.

 

Even when he started to make friends, those friendships didn't last long. His father was constantly moving, constantly looking into various archeological digs and very rarely did Luke get to settle. His parents loved their work, it was obvious. They loved him, and that was obvious. When he was little he would ask why they had to move around so much and they'd meet him with small smiles and reassurances that he would get used to it and that one day he might even come to like it.

 

But he didn't. He tried very hard for their sake. But the lack of friendships and children his age started to wear on him. It got worse as he grew older, actually. He had never been sick, no. But was he strange? Apparently so.

 

Throughout his life, he often heard a voice in his head. It was deep and gentle, and he didn't hear it as often as he used to but he still welcomed it each time. He talked about it to his family when he was little, and they explained to him that it was just an imaginary friend. As he got older and the voice didn't go away, he simply knew to stop talking about it. That didn't mean he didn't listen to it. No, he listened very carefully and obeyed almost instantly. The unfortunate drawback of having the voice in his head was that he sometimes knew things he wasn't supposed to know. This was actually the main reason he'd decided to keep to himself instead of trying to branch out and make connections as he had so often wished to do.

 

He discovered that having a voice in one's head wasn't normal when he was eight. He was talking to a girl in Misthallery, a small town where his father was considering staying in for a while. Luke didn't get his hopes up, as his father always made statements like that whenever he found a village home to an archeological site he thought to be intriguing. Luke and the girl had been close for a time, talking constantly and talking of how isolated they felt. Arianna was her name, and she stayed cooped up in an intimidating mansion all the time. They experienced two years of close friendship, and it was the longest he and his family had ever stayed in town. He went through losses, gains, everything with her. Arianna was the closest person he had to family outside of his mother, father, and their travel companions of the time.

 

Things had been going well until they'd addressed the way the town called her a witch. She'd grown self-conscious, and he'd wanted to soothe her and reassure her that even if it was true he didn't care. Then the voice had told him that she wasn't a witch at all, that she was just gravely ill. Luke had made the mistake of repeating those words, only to have her panic and flee for knowing what he shouldn't.

 

Arianna returned to him when he and his family were packing up and leaving. She apologized for running, then made him swear he wouldn't tell anyone. He also silently swore to himself that he would never again speak of the voice or what it told him. Luke stayed in contact with Arianna for as long as he could, and she admitted to him it was a relief to have someone to talk to about what she was going through. When the letters stopped coming, though, he assumed the worst. He was twelve years old, and he had already lost his only friend.

 

He remembered the night he'd come to the conclusion she was gone vividly. He was lying in bed, staring at the box where he kept all of their letters. He had made a point of copying his own, just in case he forgot what they were talking about. He also wanted to remember every word, every topic they had shared. It was then that it hit him: if she was gone, there would never be another sentence shared between them. At that precise moment, his insides caved and the last of his resolve collapsed. He turned his face into his pillow and started sobbing. He couldn't control himself, chest heaving and body tensing with each wrack. For the first time in a long time, he felt the loneliness return and he couldn't stave off just how helpless it made him feel.

 

He had only been crying a few moments when he felt something press against his shoulder. He stilled, assuming it was one of his parents come to comfort him. Then he heard it: the voice. He heard it, only this time it wasn't in his head. It manifested outside of him, as an entity all its own. It greeted him with the words, “She's safe now.” Luke had stilled and relaxed so completely. “Nothing can harm her ever again.” He was just turning his head when the voice declared, “You're not alone.”

 

Whoever it was was gone, but the words and sound of feathers brushing against each other lingered. After taking a few days to process what had happened, he wrote the words that had been spoken down and placed them inside his and Arianna's box of letters. They were be the last notes he ever sealed within the box.

* * *

 

“Can't you feel it?”

 

She shook her head. She never did. She never felt it. He just needed to accept that she never would. As for him, he didn't think there would ever be a day or night where he didn't feel like he was being watched.

 

This feeling began when he was seven. Dipper used to panic in the middle of the night if he woke up in a different position than he'd gone to sleep in. Logic told him that of course he moved in his sleep. It was natural, inevitable even. But he still developed a decent amount of anxiety about going to bed because he always felt like there were eyes on him. He'd trained himself to get ready for the day in the dark, to do things in total darkness in hopes that whatever was watching him couldn't see in the dark. He tried to get Mabel to understand, but she just couldn't. She called him paranoid, laughed, and left it at that.

 

The summer of their twelfth year, Dipper's and Mabel's family hit problems the parents weren't keen to share with them. They'd been sent to their great uncle's, and there Dipper and Mabel hoped to find something akin to normalcy again. They were wrong, of course, but at some point the feeling of being watched didn't feel as intense and alarming as it used to. Maybe it was the constant run-ins with the strange beings in Gravity Falls. Maybe it was that he and Mabel were actually getting closer, finding more things in common or learning to accept where they were different. No matter what, the fear he'd once had wasn't rekindled until one particular night. Even then, he wasn't sure it constituted as fear then.

 

Mabel had always been a sleepwalker. She claimed he would have entire conversations in his sleep, but she developed the habit of simply getting up and walking around the house as a toddler. It had stopped when they'd moved to Gravity Falls, but one night he was trying desperately to get some sleep (and failing) when he heard the floorboards creak. He rolled over in bed, registering that it was Mabel and trying to nod off. He'd been close to finally getting some rest when something occurred to him.

 

Stairs.

 

Mabel was headed for the stairs.

 

Half-dazed, he was just about to throw back the covers and run for his sister when he heard someone outside their room whisper, “What are you doing?” Mabel groaned in response. Dipper lay still, now wide awake. He didn't know that voice. It was much too high to be Grunkle Stan's, and he knew he'd never heard it before. He almost wanted to scream for the old man, because someone was in the shack and Mabel was so deep in her trance that she could easily be picked up and— “You shouldn't be wandering the house at night. You'll hurt yourself.” Mabel whined in her sleep. The unfamiliar individual chuckled. Dipper glanced around the room, looking for something (anything) he could use as a weapon. Trying to move quietly, he pushed the blankets back and lightly stepped on the floor. “Go back to bed.” Mabel made a displeased noise, likely shaking her head in the process. “Shooting Star, don't make me pick you up and carry you back.” The voice was almost scolding, but not harsh enough for Mabel to be deterred. If anything, she must have reached for the stranger because he chuckled and grunted as he likely picked her up. Dipper froze in place before automatically crawling back into bed. Lying as still as possible, he squeezed his eyes shut and lay flat on his stomach. He listened out for the creak of the floorboards, but they never came. The only indication that there had been movement came in the form of the stranger uttering, “You're getting too heavy for this, I hope you realize.”

 

One of Dipper's eyes opened slowly to see a figure lowering Mabel back into bed. In the dark there was no getting a clear view of him, but Dipper could at least see that the individual was well-dressed. Dipper couldn't recall ever having seen anyone that well-dressed dressed outside of movies. Even before taking the top hat into account, the person was so much taller than anyone Dipper had encountered. After tucking Mabel into bed, the individual turned around to look at him and—

 

Dipper jammed his eye shut again, trying not to shiver. Not human. The person in their room was not human. No human had luminescent gold eyes like that. It took everything he had not to scream, shake, breathe heavily, and the only indication that he was horrified he couldn't control was the rapid beating of his heart. He listened out again, waiting to hear the creature's departure.

 

But it never came. He never heard anything. When he opened his eyes again, it was daylight and his sister was jumping up and down on his bed trying to wake him up. “It's morning!” she cried, trying to rouse him. “Wake up, bro bro! We got work to do!”

 

When he finally gathered himself together enough to tell her what he'd seen the night before, she told him it was just a dream. It was just another dream, and he was being paranoid again. In all honesty, it had started to feel like a dream as the day went on. He found that he could deny its truth and reason that what he'd seen had been nothing more than an elaborate hallucination.

 

No matter what, though, he didn't even feel safe getting ready in the dark anymore.

* * *

 

He could hear them outside. They weren't very subtle, no matter how hard they tried. But he knew he was a freak. No. Not _a_ freak, but _the_ freak. It had been two years. They were wondering when he was going to get over it and be himself again.

 

Jack never would. He simply never would.

 

Nights and days blended together in his mind. He kept up with schoolwork enough that the teachers weren't suspicious anymore. When summer came and there was nothing to do anymore, however, sleep was all he did. That wasn't really true, though. All he did was lie in bed, room dark and door closed against the stage whispers of his foster family. Counselors told him he was just grieving. Grieving takes longer for some people. None actually offered him a way out of this slump, however. They just told him to get through it. How was he supposed to get through it when he didn't even know the way?

 

The guilt he felt in losing her was far greater than that of losing his parents. His sister and he had been babies at the time, barely out of diapers. Losing her . . . he knew whose fault it was. He wasn't watching. He should have been watching. That's what the nightmares told him, at least.

 

The nightmares were the reason why he stayed in bed but did not sleep. His family often commented on the bags under his eyes, the way he yawned at noon or at any other time of the day that wasn't evening. They'd tried consulting doctors, but Jack never spoke of what he dreamt and he never revealed that he was almost afraid to go to sleep. Specialists simply said that it was depression and tried prescribing meds to help with that. He'd stopped taking them when he realized that literally nothing would make him sleep peacefully.

 

The whispers of his family grew louder. Concern bled from their voices, and it almost felt fake to him. He wished he could drown it out somehow. Technically he could just pull out his iPod and do just that, but that required getting up and going to his backpack. He stared at the sack, which hung lamely on a hook nailed to his door. It wasn't that far away. He could just slip out of bed and—

 

No. No, he didn't want to get out of bed. Not at this time of night.

 

One of the side effects he'd begun to have while losing sleep was hallucinations. His most recent one was of hands coming out from under the bed to grab him by the ankles. He tried not to get up when it was dark after that.

 

He should be terrified out of his wits. He should be consulting someone more seriously. If the nightmares were to be believed, though, he deserved it all. He deserved every negative feeling he'd received since his sister's death.

 

 _It should have been you_ , the creature from his nightmares declared. Said creature was a big black horse with luminescent, golden eyes.

 

 _You let her die_. Yes. Yes Jack had.

 

It got to the point that he didn't even flinch upon waking anymore. In the dream, the stallion would speak just as the ice beneath his feet would break. Sometimes he flailed. Sometimes he couldn't breathe. Sometimes he couldn't even respond. But every single time the darkness would pull him under into freezing cold depths. He'd get stuck staring up at the hole in the ice, watching the moon being blotted out by a dark head of someone he'd never seen before.

 

This was his punishment. This was what he deserved. That's what the nightmares told him. Judging by the infrequent message he received on his darkest nights, he only had a short while to live with the remorse. The message?

 

_You'll pay for your crimes._

 

In the back of his mind, he knew he should fear that statement. After two years of living with it, however, he was just ready to get it over with.


	4. I Don't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second of two updates on this work today, don't skip!

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” Bill strode into the castle, carefully stepping around the king's lounge area. Hell knew what his minions had been doing in it the last time the king had thrown a party. Bill had to refrain from shuddering. He had some gruesome creatures of his own, but they weren't nearly as disgusting as the king's. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a personal invitation?”

 

“Cut the pleasantries, Cipher. Just tell me what your bosom companions are up to.” Bill quirked an eyebrow. Jareth was not in a good mood, which was further evidenced by the object that currently had almost his entire attention. He sat sideways on his throne, one leg draped over an arm as he stared sullenly into his crystal. Bill was one movement away from rolling his eyes at the king, who had been staring at the same human girl for the past decade or so and was likely staring at her now. She was a girl no longer, and Jareth was still obsessed with her. As if sensing what the other demon was thinking, the king uttered, “Don't stand there and tell me you don't have an obsession of your own.”

 

Bill snorted. “Unlike you, I didn't give my charges the opportunity to say no.”

 

“Then can you really call them yours?”

 

Oh, it was going to be one of those arguments. Bill was in no mood. Then again, he was never in the mood to deal with the king. While a good ally to have (if one could call him an ally), he cared too much about appearances and fronts. That would be fine and dandy (Bill took extra care to maintain a certain look and reputation for himself) if Jareth's style wasn't so severely outdated. His realm was almost a medieval setting, and Jareth only bothered drawing on the fads of the times that he liked. He liked very little, and what he did like simply did not match the look he continued to maintain. The king hadn't tried to update anything else since the girl he continued to stare at had snubbed him. He hated being in this realm more than in Descole's. At least the Victorian demon's style was consistent.

 

Withholding a loud sigh, Bill ceased his hovering and allowed his feet to touch the ground. Trying not to think of what he might be standing on, he tapped his cane on the ground and asked, “If you want to know what they're up to, why ask me?” He didn't have time to keep tabs on the others. Actually he did, but the king didn't need to know that. “Aren't you and Pitch close?”

 

“If you can call talking to a shadow close, I suppose so.” He slid the crystal into the inside of his jacket, turning his heterochrome gaze onto Bill. “But, much like a shadow, he never talks back.”

 

“You just haven't said the right words.”

 

“And apparently you do.” Their eyes narrowed on one another. “Now what is going on with him and the . . . Victorian?” He scoffed the last word. Jareth had never been overly fond of Descole. Not since he and Pitch had grown to be so tight. Bill couldn't deny their bond but unlike Jareth, he was not deterred by it. No, Pitch didn't speak to Bill as often as he used to, but they still spoke and trusted one another not to tell. A demon's word was unbreakable given the right circumstances.

 

Which was why Bill wasn't going to tell the king anything. “Ask them. They're your subjects.”

 

Jareth stood, crop appearing in his hand out of thin air. Bill watched it carefully, as the king had made the mistake of hitting him only once in the millennia they'd known each other. The fight that had ensued had resulted in the destruction of so many civilizations. Since, the king had only ever considered striking him. He never did, though. The line that made up the king's mouth drew thinner before he commented, “You're about to remind me whose subjects they could have been.”

 

“I don't have time to argue about the same thing one hundred more times.” He had better things to do, and Jareth knew that.

 

“You have all the time in the world, humor me.”

 

“No.” Bill didn't feel like repeating himself. He didn't want the damn throne. Ruling took up too much time, and he wasn't interested in the politics. He didn't want to rule things, he wanted to burn them. It was Jareth who liked the fame. Bill preferred the infamy. “Can I get back to what I was doing now?”

 

“What is it? Have the twins found another monstrosity of yours?” Bill glared, and he could feel himself growling before he heard the sound leave his throat. “It's astounding they've stayed alive this long. I can't help but think you and your friends are simply too attached to your charges.”

 

If this was supposed to be a threat, Bill was ready to deck Jareth for wasting his time. “Unlike the others, I'm not giving you their souls. They're mine.”

 

“If you say so,” Jareth said with a sigh. Then he grumbled, “If Descole can _keep_ another soul.” Now there was a legitimate concern. “If he loses me one more soul, I'll end him.”

 

“We know.” He's said. Hundreds of times. Only this time, Bill actually did think Descole was going to lose his head if something happened. Bill started to leave, hoping this was the last of the discussion. “I have things to do—”

 

“What is the fascination with those children?”

 

His irritation got the better of him and he snapped, “What's the fascination with that woman of yours?” Jareth grimaced and prepared to make a comeback, but then Bill retorted, “Oh that's right. She's not yours!”

 

“Don't test me, Cipher—”

 

“Don't waste my time, Goblin Man—”

 

“King!”

 

“Whatever!”

 

“You waste plenty of your own time. You can spare a few moments to acknowledge your ruler.”

 

“You don't rule me!” Bill's eyes flashed black, red seeping from his form before he regained control of his wits. “You'd do well to remember that.”

 

Jareth's own face flashed warningly. “Don't threaten me.”

 

“Need I remind you who helped clean up the mess she made of your kingdom?”

 

“Need I remind you who got those two demons off your back for cheating on a wager?”

 

This again? Really? When will he just drop that? “I didn't cheat! I spiced things up!”

 

“You introduced a third party and nearly wiped out two desert towns with a corporate beast.”

 

“What do you care? You got countless souls and couple of new subjects out of that failed transaction.”

 

“You are a problem, Cipher.”

 

“And you should be happy I've been so preoccupied lately.” Which reminded him, he really had something more important to get to.

 

“I'm not certain I want two more demons like you wandering my realms.”

 

“You think you can stop me?” Jareth didn't answer. If fact, he backed off completely at that. Bill smirked. “That's what I thought.” Turning to leave, he stepped up off the ground and started floating away. “I'd reconsider summoning me to do your spying for you. Your kingdom, your problem.”

 

As Bill left, Jareth pulled his crystal out again. Staring at what he'd previously been observing, he watched the boys Descole and Pitch had taken under their wings. Pitch he was not concerned over. Descole, however . . . .

 

He couldn't wait for the Victorian's soft side to get him annihilated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told you who I want to be the antagonist here yet?


	5. Enjoy the Silence

Knowing one's charges on a personal level wasn't forbidden. In fact, depending on the nature of the deal that had bound a demon to a particular charge, contact might even be encouraged. These deals often involved demons who primarily resided on the human realm. Descole knew a few demons in the American court system who tangled closely with those they were supposed to collect souls from. In his opinion, they were rather poor examples for demons. They had the mentality and appearance of demons, but they were rather big buffoons when it came to interactions. He liked and respected all of one of them. Other demons tried to have as little contact with their charges as possible. Whether this was because they did not want to become attached or not also depended on the nature of the deal. Technically Bill Cipher could have all the contact he so desired with his precious twins, as their souls belonged exclusively to him and not one inkling would ever be seen by the Goblin King (as Jareth was so lovingly titled by those who couldn't stand him). Why Bill maintained such a forced barrier between himself and the children he called Shooting Star and Pine Tree, Descole was determined to find out eventually.

 

Descole was among the demons who tried to maintain a distance between himself and his charges. He had found in the past that the more contact they shared, the more likely he was to offer them an out. He could not allow one Luke Triton an out, no matter how attached he was already becoming to the boy.

 

But he had a weakness for him. That much was true. He sat in his realm, which appeared to be a Gothic castle not unlike one he had once visited during his childhood as a human. Many of its rooms possessed objects from his human life, such as furniture and paintings. Certain things, such as photographs, were locked away. Only Pitch knew their exact location, as he'd helped him stake his claim on this part of the realm. Sitting in a velvet chair by a fireplace that was never empty or cold, he stared into his crystal and heard the boy whisper, “I can hear you. Can you hear me too?”

 

Descole didn't answer. When he didn't, Luke sighed and rolled over in his bed solemnly. The demon knew it was getting harder for him. He was really feeling the loneliness now that he didn't even have the one friend to correspond with. It was getting more difficult, seeing a boy he'd promised a full life feeling as though he were only living half of it. His parents had long stopped feeling as though they needed to watch his every move, like he was going to grow ill and die any moment. The boy's company tended to consist of animals that perched on the ledges and windows of his house at the time. Descole had thought of lingering on a sill to commune with Luke, but knew he shouldn't risk it even in his raven form.

 

No attachments this time. Just collect the soul when Jareth wanted it and be done.

 

“You're gonna fail.” Descole jumped at the voice, leaping out of his seat and almost dropping his crystal. Sword materializing in his free hand, he turned to point it at the intruder just as the wolves that resided in the small wood surrounding the castle began to howl. He lost some of his tenseness and lowered his sword only a little when his 'guest' guffawed and declared, “Your pets are a little late. I could have killed you again before they would have sensed me.”

 

Descole exhaled loudly, sword disappearing as Bill leaned nonchalantly on the back of the chair the demon had been sitting in. “What do you want this time?” Because Bill only showed up in Descole's realm when he had a question only Descole was capable of answering (or rather a question he didn't want to ask anyone else). “If your Pine Tree is coughing, it's probably just a cold. Human doctors can handle that fairly well nowadays.”

 

“No, he's fine. Just being his little shit self, as per usual.” Bill's smirk faded and he turned serious. “I'm giving you a bit of warning.”

 

Descole's brow furrowed. “Warning?”

 

Bill nodded. “Don't screw up this transaction.”

 

The younger demon's head tilted to the side as he placed the crystal in his breast pocket. “What sort of warning is this?”

 

“Jareth seems . . . overly interested in your deal with Suspenders.” That was a new nickname. Descole wasn't sure he'd hear that one in reference to Luke before. “He might be expecting you to lose this time. Even counting on it.”

 

That was a serious accusation. “What evidence do you have of this?”

 

“He recently asked me what you and Pitch were up to, more emphasis on you.”

 

“How recently?”

 

Bill glanced up, shrugging. “Couple of weeks ago? Maybe a month.”

 

Descole's gaze grew redder and darker. “And you're just telling me _now_?!”

 

“Hey, I had priorities! Their last names start with a 'P' and end in 'ines,' in case you forgot.” Bill turned, leaning his elbows on the chair as he gestured with his hands and said, “Look. My advice is you drop the twenty-four hour watch. How bad can it be? Distance yourself, find another soul to acquire, the kid's life will be done before you know it!”

 

“The deal,” Descole reasoned, “was that he live a full life. With my luck, I will walk away for one minute and he'll die too young. Then I'll be out a soul and Jareth will come after me as you warned. This child needs my full attention—”

 

“Humans don't die as easily as you think they do. I've met a couple who are practically cockroaches. I should introduce you to Stanford—”

 

“Luke isn't a cockroach. He is the opposite of a cockroach. He is practically a fruit fly—”

 

“Oh thank Hell,” Bill burst out, stopping Descole entirely. “I was afraid you'd compare him to something like a butterfly. Then I'd have to hit you.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Don't get your panties in a twist. You know how you get, with your poetry and your comparisons and it all just makes me sick.”

 

“You are the most cryptic creature I have ever encountered, and my metaphors disgust you?”

 

“Cryptic is different than grossly metaphorical.”

 

Descole knew he had a point, so he quieted. For about a minute, at least. “If humans are so hard to kill, I suppose you too are overreacting every time one of the twins falls ill. I'll remember what you said the next time it happens.”

 

Bill rolled his eyes. “Those two would die just to spite me.”

 

“They barely even know you.”

 

“And it's going to stay that way until they're ready.” Descole wanted to ask. He terribly wanted to ask why Bill was so intent not to take advantage of the situation he'd created for himself. But he didn't. Instead, he simply nodded and heeded the demon's advice. “I'm doing this for Pitch, you know.” Descole looked away at that. He should have guessed. “You're his prodigy.” Bill didn't say it, but Descole could somehow guess there were more circumstances to this exchange than the elder demon was letting on. He let it go, though.

 

As the elder left to go about his own business, which he claimed to have much of, the wolves ceased their howling outdoors and he settled back down in his chair. Without taking the crystal out to view the boy again, he could already feel himself doing just what Bill had declared he would: failing.

 

It was only a matter of time before he faltered and caved and responded to Luke's mutterings.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd apologize for starting something without finishing something else, but sorry went out the window when this story popped into my head. xIrelandx might be chiming in too with the Ace Attorney fandom and other assorted fandoms, so I'll try to rec what they write too because all they do is glamorous.
> 
> Plus HOLY SHIT GUYS I FINALLY LEARNED HOW TO PAGE BREAK!


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